


Hip Hip Huzzah

by Jade_Masquerade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Medieval Times Dinner and Tournament AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 00:30:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11909445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Masquerade/pseuds/Jade_Masquerade
Summary: When Robb gets a new job at a place that brings to life all the fairytales, stories, and songs Sansa loved as a child, she meets a certain dragon knight even better than the Prince Charming of her dreams.





	Hip Hip Huzzah

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case anyone is unfamiliar with the concept of [Medieval Times](http://www.medievaltimes.com/)

When Robb told her about his new job, Sansa laughed. Not just a small chuckle, or an amused giggle, no, a full-out, tear-inducing, belly-clutching kind of laugh. In fact, she laughed more than… well, more than she could even recall in recent memory. 

“A knight?” she cried. “Like in shining armor?”

“No, we don’t wear _actual_ armor,” Robb bristled. “And it’s more sword fighting and horse riding and archery than anything, and you know I’ve always liked that stuff.” 

Sansa did, but she didn’t know Robb liked it enough to graduate from college, announce he wouldn’t be pursuing a career in finance after all, and instead take up dressing in colored garb and pretending to go save a princess and defending a fake kingdom nightly for a living. 

“Well, I guess now’s the time to try something different, while you’re young and before you have actual responsibilities,” their mother said in a poor attempt to disguise her consternation. 

Sansa hadn’t been surprised—she always knew, hell, everyone always knew Robb had never wanted to go into their family business. He wasn’t exactly the type to sit behind a desk calculating numbers or lead meetings in boardrooms, too adventure-seeking to sit still for long. None of them had expected him, however, to make a livelihood in choreographed jousting, or, as her mother had called it during what Sansa could describe no better than Robb’s interrogation, “knocking men off horses with long, pointy sticks.” 

“And what does Margaery think?” Catelyn asked, invoking the name of Robb’s longtime girlfriend and apparent handler. 

Robb shrugged. “She said to do whatever makes me happy.”

Catelyn huffed as if that were the most ridiculous pursuit she’d ever heard. 

Arya had been delighted, of course, to teach Robb a few of her fencing tricks she’d learned over the years, and Bran and Rickon enjoyed watching, too, even if Sansa suspected they did so in more of a humorous way now than in the admiration of their younger years. 

Sansa rolled her eyes whenever he complained to them of his sore thighs from riding five days a week and his bruises from falling and mistimed spear thrusts.

“You wanted this, Robb,” she said solemnly. “Just imagine, instead you could be icing your fingertips after a long day of typing on the computer and working the calculator. But no, you just had to go save the princess, always playing the hero.”

“You used to love being the princess I went up the tree after—”

“ _Used_ to,” Sansa emphasized. It had been well over a decade since they had played ‘Monsters and Maidens’ out in the yard, and they had both long since moved on to other interests. Or so she’d thought.

“Look, just come watch one night with Marg,” he pleaded. Robb flashed his sheepish, disarming grin that all her friends had embarrassingly fallen in love with at one point or another over the years. “You’ll see. It’s fun! It’s better than sitting around here and waiting for—who is it nowadays? Ramsay? Harry? Please don’t tell me we’re back to _Joffrey—_ ” 

Sansa cut him off with a look. He didn’t have to ask her twice. 

 

 

So the weekend after, she and Margaery filtered into the faux castle with the crowd to take their seats right in the front row beside the arena. Sansa vaguely remembered the previous time she visited Seven Kingdoms Dinner and Tournament with her family as a young girl. Back then she’d watched mostly for the pretty horses, picking out her favorite ones, always those who gleamed white with long, flowing manes and tails. 

This time, her and Margaery ordered a bottle of wine to share and discussed their predictions for everything from how well they thought Robb would perform in each of his knightly challenges to how ridiculous he would look in his period outfit on a scale of one to approximately a million. Sansa thought dinner would be barbaric, eating with her hands, but she found there was a special sort of charm to it, slurping soup out of her cup, gnawing on corn on the cob and chicken, inventing ways to consume her roasted potatoes without a fork. 

Soon the real show they came to see began with the fanfare of trumpets and the donning of paper crowns. Each knight rode out carrying a bright flag with a symbol; she objectively liked Robb’s best, a grey wolf on a field of white. She expected the riders to look completely phony and cheesy, but she had to admit Robb actually looked handsome in his outfit on his similarly colored dappled grey steed, even if Sansa couldn’t stop giggling at his wig of long flowing hair despite Margaery’s smack on her arm. 

“I think he’ll be borrowing that for a night sometime,” Margaery commented, whooping as Robb passed them. This time, Sansa pulled a face. 

The rest of dinner and their dwindling bottle of wine passed in a blur, with the castle falcon flying about, the horses going through their dances, the pageantry of a loosely plotted storyline, and relay contests and sword fighting. Every once in a while, Robb and the knights would appear again, tossing pink and red carnations into the crowd, of which Margaery seemed to receive an unfair portion in their section. 

Then it came time for the final jousting matches. The riders paired up, going against each other in true tournament fashion, while the losers, who in most cases seemed to leap right off their horses, exited the arena, leaving the winners to face off against each other. Robb made it to the final tilt—his big moment, he’d told them. Sometimes he played the victor, sometimes the victim, but Margaery gasped all the same anyway as he deflected the oncoming point with his shield and then took his turn driving his own spear into the shield of the opposing knight. Sansa had to admit it made for harrowing entertainment, even if it was all staged. 

In the end, tonight was Robb’s turn to lose, his rival melodramatically unhorsing Robb and running him through with a sword once he writhed in what appeared to be, at least to Sansa, comical agony, on the ground. 

The victorious knight turned and raised his own shield in victory to the cheers of his supporters. Sansa hadn’t noticed him before, but then again, she had been quite busy laughing at Robb in his costume and sipping wine and trying to avoid slopping soup all down the front of her dress for the majority of the tournament. Mounted on a huge horse black as night, he grabbed something from the center of the area, wheeled his mount around, and galloped straight for their section. Sansa found the image mesmerizing—him clad in all black with the stitching of a red, three-headed dragon blazing across his chest, the same image embossed on his shield.

He halted in front of Sansa and removed his helmet, his unruly black curls spilling over his shoulders, his dark, dancing grey eyes meeting hers. 

Sansa stood up out of her chair without recognizing she had done so. 

“My favor, for you, my lady,” he said, but he could have said anything, he could have been telling her that he’d been sent to bring her another drink from the bar or that the table candle had set her hair on fire for all she knew. The heat of his gaze pierced right through her. 

She reached out and accepted the crown of blue roses he handed her, ignoring the impatient snort of his horse as he arranged it perfectly in her hair. 

“Our Queen of Love and Beauty!” the announcer shouted to the applause of the crowd. 

Sansa felt herself turning as red as her hair. The knight bowed to her, spun his horse around, and cantered away. 

 

 

**Two Hours Later**

 

Jon Snow, as she learned his name was at the backstage after-party Robb took her and Margaery to, kicked in a door off the hallway. Sansa didn’t think Robb would have invited her to said after-party or to come see any part of the show in the first place if he had considered the sheer number of young, fit, handsome male coworkers he possessed. Before Robb had a chance to steer her away, she had had enough time to meet Theon Greyjoy, who’d bowed while placing a kiss on the back of her hand and referred to himself as the “Kraken Knight,” Jaime, who looked like Prince Charming straight out of a fairytale, and Daario, who seemed to take his role as the blue knight overly seriously, enough to match his hair and beard to the theme. 

But Jon, who introduced himself when Sansa finally snuck away from her overly-protective babysitter to grab another beer, with his head of dark hair, kind face, and muscled body she wanted to press herself entirely against, had been the best of all. 

“After you, my lady,” he said in his voice of knightly solemnity. 

When Sansa had asked during their tour of the dungeons how long it had taken him to perfect his accent, he grimaced and told her about his many hours of practice, mostly in the shower so his roommate, Sam, and his friends Grenn and Pyp wouldn’t make more fun of him than they already did. By the end, after her mind snagged on a naked, dripping wet Jon wrapping his lips and tongue around fussy words like “chivalry” and “valor” and “honor,” she was fairly certain she had forgotten her own question. 

They emerged into what appeared to be an old storeroom, not that Sansa saw much of it before Jon hauled her back against him. What started as a “quest,” as Jon wryly called it, to see the stables, the falconry, and the armory had somewhere along the way devolved into this. It was almost like the kinds of adventures she imagined going on as a girl, filled with whimsy and magic and all sorts of royal spectacle, before Arya came along and Robb grew too old to enjoy playing along with her stories and told her none of those things were real anyway.

Well, the joke was on him now. Jon was even better than the standard soppy, golden-haired princes of her fairytales, his dark eyes and pretty hair and the way his arms looked from his hours of sword swinging and riding horses and hauling shields and thrusting spears making for a most fascinating tale of discovery as she focused on each span in turn. 

After a stop to see his sword, a long blade of dark, shimmering grey with a pommel in the shape of a black dragon with ruby eyes that glowed red, Jon had taken her into the empty arena, right up on the platform where the royalty stood during the performance. She suspected it was at that point, when he helped her up the narrow staircase and led her right up to the balcony edge, that her hand found its way into his, and hanging onto it seemed easier and more natural than letting go. 

“Do you know what I wanted to be when I was younger?” she had mused. “A princess.” 

He laughed. The sound echoed pleasantly in the arena, reminding her of their seclusion. “Why was that?” 

“You got to wear the prettiest dresses, everyone lived to serve at your beck and call, and you had the rights to the prince, of course.” She did a little twirl as though she were at one of the fancy, regal balls she’d found so intriguing. “What about you? Didn’t you ever have any crazy dreams?” 

“Yeah. I always wanted to ride a dragon.” He flashed her a wicked grin. “But I’d settle for letting the princess ride me.” 

And then suddenly she was kissing Jon, beautiful, handsome Jon who’d swept in _deus ex draco,_ a twist on the fairytales she always loved. His lips felt even better than she imagined, and she had done a fair bit of imagining after Margaery had commented on them, too, once Sansa returned to her seat knowing she must have looked an odd mix of patriotic hues between the white lacey top of her dress, the blue flowers in her hair, said red hair, and her flushed face. 

“Well, _he_ looks like a good time,” had been her words, to be exact, before she proceeded to go through all the things it appeared he would be more than competent at, but not more competent than Robb, of course, and that was precisely where Sansa stopped listening. 

She pushed Margaery and Robb out of her mind, even though she supposed it was thanks to them and their little disappearing act that sweet, sexy Jon Snow had taken pity on her and offered a behind the scenes tour of the facility and now, apparently, the inner contours of his pretty, pouty mouth. 

“I know somewhere better,” Jon had said before they slipped down the stairs and right off the balcony, so that was how they ended up here, making out in the middle of replica medieval junk. Sansa caught glimpses as Jon walked her backwards—a shield with a bear on it studded full of arrows, a white-barked tree with blood red leaves, a stone statue of a somber-looking woman—all of it a whirl until he turned her around. 

A massive chair with swords fanned out like a peacock sat on a raised dais in the middle of the room. 

She stifled a laugh. “What the hell is that?” 

“I dunno. I think they used it for the old storyline, something about the king dying and five other kings going to war to take over his kingdom,” he said. “Go on.” 

She climbed up the steps and sat down, surveying her audience of faded banners and broken spears and Jon, who no longer wore his costume, but somehow now looked even better in a black t-shirt and black jeans, his hair pulled up. “ _Really doesn’t care for color much, does he,_ ” Margaery had observed when he arrived at the party, looking freshly showered. Sansa had insisted black was a color, though, and that Jon looked damn good in it. 

“How does it feel?” he asked, slowing stepping up toward her. All the formality of before had slipped out of his voice, replaced by something low and heated. 

“Like I belong here. Like I’m Queen Sansa, first of her name, a Lady of House Stark and the reigning Queen of Love and Beauty,” she said, keeping her tone teasing to try to tamp down on the thrilling tingle building in her belly. She felt every bit a true monarch in that moment, with the flowers still in her hair and the way he looked at her, his eyes almost black now, a grin playing around his lips. “Like I should tell all of my royal subjects to bow down.” 

Jon reached the platform and sank to his knees. “Yes, Your Grace.” 

“I didn’t mean you actually _had_ to kneel,” she said, but he was already lifting the hem of her dress, and his hands felt so, so warm on her smooth skin, she forgot to worry about any kind of propriety or modesty, forgot about anything besides the glide of his fingers up and up and up, forgot about everything beyond the look on his face that had turned positively feral. 

“You know, technically I can knight you, Queen Sansa of House Stark,” he said, bending one of her knees and lifting her leg so her ankle rested over his shoulder. He moved slowly, dropping kisses as he eased higher along her calf. 

“Oh?” she practically squeaked, the small sound seeming overly loud compared to the surrounding silence and his ragged breaths against her inflamed skin. 

“Hip hip…” he started, just before he disappeared beneath the flowy fabric of her dress.

“Huzz _ah,_ ” she finished on a gasp, right as he pushed her underwear aside and his tongue licked up her center. 

Sansa expected just a few leisurely licks, but no, Jon knew what he was about, and he seemed just as adept at this as all the horse riding and sword fighting and fake jousting, maybe even better…

Some semi-coherent part of her fevered mind urged her to gather the long skirt of her dress into one hand so she could better see Jon working what she fought to decide was either some kind of magic or sorcery between her legs. No matter what it was, she couldn’t get enough. She draped her other leg over the armrest of the chair, opening herself more to him, and he responded with a groan. 

Sansa found it difficult to pinpoint the exact cause of his apparent exceptional talent. Was it the way he seemed to know how to use just the _right_ amount of pressure? The scrape of his beard against her thighs? Or the way he seemed to really, truly enjoy the task almost as much as she took pleasure in him performing it? She let her other hand sink into his hair, and when he pressed the flat of his tongue harder against her clit and sucked, she tugged. 

Jon glanced up, looking thoroughly debauched with his lips gleaming and slanting in a smirk, his hair a riot of curls now that she had pulled free of its elastic. “All right?”

“Just wanted to make sure it was real,” she breathed. 

He laughed and bent back to work, adding his hand between her legs. Sansa moaned, thankful for the cool, twisted metal of the chair against her hot skin. Every part of her body wound up like a string on one of the bows Jon had shown her in the armory in response to his attentions, tighter and tighter, until it snapped, a rush of heat searing through her, leaving her boneless. 

He eased her legs back to the floor, and Sansa reveled in the strangeness of being back on the ground and not seemingly floating somewhere above it. 

Her legs were so jelly-like Sansa didn’t know how she managed to slide off the chair—or throne, she guessed, would have been a more accurate term. Somehow, she managed to sit Jon down on it and straddle his lap.

Locking her hands in his gorgeous and completely authentic hair, she dove for his mouth again, rubbing up against him. She could feel him hard through his jeans, and wriggled back and forth, teasing him while she enjoyed the friction. 

He groaned into her mouth, the resulting pleasant vibration stoking her every nerve that already prickled with want. 

She reached down to lower the zipper on his jeans—quite a feat given both how tight they were and how hard he was—and drew him out, shoving the fabric out of the way. He gasped when her hand wrapped around his cock and she began to stroke until he warned her to stop. 

Sansa fumbled on the ground for where she abandoned her clutch, where Margaery had stashed some condoms, partially as a prank and part as precaution, before their last night out together. Margaery had wanted to set Sansa up with the next attractive man they ran into who wasn’t a spoiled brat like Joffrey, who wasn’t a complete douchebag like Harry, or who wasn’t an utter psychopath like Ramsay because “There’s no such thing as Prince Charming from your fairytales,” according to Margaery.

Sansa thoroughly disagreed now, standing before a panting Jon Snow. She thought he probably came close enough anyway with his willingness to rescue a damsel in distress, even if it was just from her stupid brother’s own mindlessness, and even if his knightly honors and abilities merely extended to being a veritable source of orgasms instead of any kind of old-fashioned chivalry. 

_Margaery, you are a saint,_ Sansa thought as she plucked a little foil packet out of its side pocket, even though surely her friend was currently off sinning somewhere in ways she didn’t want to think about. 

She slipped Jon’s shirt off over his head; no way in hell would she be the only one caught here half naked. She doubted anyone would be looking at her though, not when Jon looked like that, practically like one of the Renaissance paintings focused on portraying perfect specimens of the human form that occasionally accompanied the poems in the books or covered the trashy romance novels she moved onto reading after she started to look beyond her favorite fairytales. 

_Holy shit._ Sansa practically gasped. “Can I touch?” 

“Of course.” He smirked up at her, took her hands, and placed them on the hard lines of his stomach. “I thought you were supposed to be the queen here.” 

“I am,” she said, contorting herself until she could comfortably straddle his lap. Well, as comfortably as she could with how his hard-on brushed teasingly against her center. “And I command you to fuck me.”

He took no time in pulling her down onto his cock. 

She could literally hear herself slide down onto him she was so wet; it would have been almost embarrassing if it hadn’t felt so fucking good and Jon hadn’t fixed her with that hungry look again. 

“There’s never been so great a sight to behold in all the Seven Kingdoms,” Jon said in way of explanation, even though his voice had long slipped from one of knightly distinction to one coarse with desire.

He drove upward, and Sansa’s reply faded from her lips. She reached out to take hold of a couple of the spikes above his curls to steady herself, while Jon gripped her hips to do the same, her dress crumpled there in his hands, his fingers flexing against her backside. 

Sansa tried to think of what else this could appear to be should someone walk in—practicing for the show? Testing the stability of the furniture? No, nope, there would be no mistaking it, but the longer Jon went on, the less she cared. 

She readjusted her position, pushing herself up higher on her knees and inadvertently tightening herself around him. His responding growl reverberated through his chest, the sound stimulating a resulting surge of pride in her own. She might have dreamt of pompous princes and gallant heroes in her years of childhood naivety, but she couldn’t deny that every part of this from the way Jon seemed unable to look away from her to how he cursed beneath his breath each time she sank down on him utterly fulfilled her more recent fantasies. 

He bucked beneath her and she knotted one hand in his hair to hang on, sinking the nails of her other slightly into his chest, right where the dragon had been before, glittering red, a deeper scarlet than her hair, though not quite as bold as the flush that currently spread across her skin. 

She wriggled in his lap; every angle felt equally as good, until she started to lean back, and she found one to put all the rest to shame. Her hands braced on his knees, he held her up with one strong arm looped around her waist and slipped the other beneath her dress. 

“One more time,” Jon begged, skimming his thumb over her clit. “Come once more for me, Sansa.”

The heady feeling of oh-so-sweet inevitable satisfaction swept her along as it had before, aided by the way he’d purred her name like rough velvet, and encouraged further by the way she slipped backward, leaning away until her hair nearly brushed against the floor. Her peak knifed through her with an intensity that would have been shocking had it not been for Jon’s earlier exploits with his tongue. 

He came with a final grunt before she could fully straighten to face him again, and when she did, she found Jon glancing up at her with a mischievous grin.

She returned it. “What’s that for?” 

He reached up to finger the petals on the crown, which now sat askew. “Is it bad this was exactly what I imagined when I gave you that?” 

She couldn’t disagree.


End file.
